


Morning Run

by Mandibles



Series: In which I try to cope with the Colton Thing [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actual wolf!Derek, Bestiality, Consensual, Established Relationship, Knotting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson is starting to like these morning runs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Run

Jackson is made for this, for running, his legs pumping as he races through the forest, ground giving easily beneath his sneakers, damp from a fresh, autumn rain. It’s not too different from swimming, actually, only vertical and drier, and there’s something about the speed, how fast and powerful and  _unstoppable_  he feels with the world rushing past him in a mess of damp browns and dense greens and dying reds. He usually feels like a hunter in this moment, a beast scrambling for the heart of nature, for home.

But, that’s lost with a real beast on his heels.

Heavy paws pound the earth with wet splatters of mud and grass and—fuck—deep cracks echo around him, splintering wood, splitting  _trees_  that he just catches in the peripheral of his vision, white-yellow and massacred. Fear strikes him, electric, and his foot slides on leaves, and—no,  _fuck_ , no. Run.  _Run_. Arms cutting at his sides, he presses harder until clumps of wet earth fly behind him, eyes frantic for some point in the distance to focus on, but there is only an endless line of trees, of brush, green needles, thorns.  

A deep, throaty howl shoots through Jackson, shocks him, and he snaps his head back toward the sound in instinct, toward the mass of black fur barreling through the brush with tight muscle and white, snapping teeth and red, red, red, red—

The world explodes around him—black spots, white sparks, double-triple-quadruple vision. He gasps, chest heaving, adrenaline coursing through his veins as his mind tries to unscramble itself. It takes him too long to realize he’s no longer running, no longer moving, no longer  _standing_ , and even longer to realize that that’s a bad thing. A bad, bad, horrible fucking thing.

Everything clicks back to rights and Jackson’s eyes snap open to—“Fuck!”—two fierce red points in the dark of twilight. Head, face throbbing, his body moves of its own accord, clambering backward in the muck with frantic elbows, kicking legs. He makes to scramble back to his feet, to run, but a tree startles him, stops him, and it’s too late, too late, because the wolf is  _on_  him, putting a paw on his chest and pushing, pinning, until his ribs  _creak_.  

The hulking, black snout shoves forward with its pink mouth open, white teeth bared and black lips pulled back in a feral, silent snarl— Jackson snaps his head to the side, away from it, but that only invites it to his throat with the hot, stinking breath of dead rabbits and dead deer and dead squirrels and it’s going to kill  _him_ next, going to sink its teeth into his flesh and tug—

“Stop!” he squeals into the mud, hands clutching tufts of grass. “Stop, please! Please please please stop!”

Saliva-slick teeth slide across his collarbone.

“Derek!”

That stops it, freezes it into place. Jackson sucks a tight breath in the following silence, stillness, holds it as he waits for it to make a move. After a good bit of time passes and nothing happens, Jackson knows what he has to do. Exhaling deeply, eyes flicking open, he opens his mouth.

“Okay, fine. You win, okay? You win.”

Teeth stay in place.

“Dammit, I  _submit_!”

Jackson jerks when the wolf’s jaw snaps shut in his ear and it draws off. The second the pressure’s lifted from his chest, Jackson edges away until his back pushes against rough bark, and he just pants and shudders and swears as his body tries to calm itself. A moment and he manages to wheeze, “You know, I’m really starting to get sick of these little morning runs of ours.”

The wolf—Derek—somehow manages to look impossibly smug with a wolfish grin and a bushy, wagging tail.

Jackson wants to kick him, so he does, or attempts to at least. He kicks but meets empty air instead of fur; he does manage to aggravate the pounding in his head, though. “Oh my god, I  _really_  fucking hate you,” he hisses, touching the red bump on his mud-smeared forehead. He hears Derek approach, feels him nudge at his fingers with a cold, wet nose, and he leans into the soothing touch of canine tongue with a snort.

“So, you won. Again.” Jackson reaches for Derek’s face, carts his fingers through the fur as he nuzzles his snout. “When do you want your prize, hm? Now?”

Derek noses down to his neck. The rumble that leaves his throat is practically a purr.

“Here?”

A lick curls on his chin.

“Like this?”

That gives Derek pause, but then he ducks his head out of sight and growls low in his throat. His tail, though, betrays his thoughts, wagging from side-to-side in low sweeps.

Jackson laughs and rubs at furry cheeks, pulls the wolf close so he can kiss his head. “Come on, big boy,” he whispers into a flicking ear. “Come on, I’m all nice and lubed up for you.” Red eyes blink and a curious nose dips, pushes and snuffles at the crotch of Jackson’s sweatpants, making his cock twitch at the attention. Then, Derek retreats from his arms, ears flattened uncertainly.

Jackson takes that as his chance to shift away from the tree, hook dirty thumbs under his waistband to wriggle his sweats, his boxers, off his hips and bare himself to the cold morning. Derek hovers with unsure footing when Jackson rolls and settles on hands and knees, then elbows and knees, his head dropping onto his forearms. “Seriously, Derek. Before the sun comes up and they start looking for us,” Jackson presses before chuckling into his skin. “Imagine McCall catching you knotting me. You don’t know what— _oh_.”

Derek repeats the tentative motion, dragging his broad tongue—and, in turn, cold nose—up Jackson’s cleft, from the curve of his balls to the loosened pucker of his hole. Sighing deeply, Jackson reaches back and spreads a cheek when Derek’s tongue poises for another stroke. The chase left him hard as it always does and the way Derek works him only makes his skin tighter, makes the ache worse.

Jackson’s voice reaches a low, needy pitch. “ _Derek_ , do it.” He rolls his hips back impatiently. “You’re the fucking Alpha, right? Stop being a pussy and assert your dominance, or whatever.”

An indignant growl pulls from Derek, one that Jackson can feel in the pit of his stomach, as if he takes offense—which he probably does, actually. Derek makes to mount him then, a dangerous weight pressing Jackson down, and Jackson tucks his head under to catch strong, furry legs behind him and the red beginnings of a wolf erection between them. Claws scrape at his tender sides, but Jackson’s too far gone with some anxiety and heightened anticipation to care; he just waits and waits and waits until—“Fuck  _yes_ , Derek.”—the wolf finds where it needs to be and _pushes_.

The preliminary stretching and lubing was a fine idea on Jackson’s part, because though he’s not yet hard or fully exposed, Derek still feels painfully large as he shoves inside him with the grace of a beast. It helps when Derek starts to huff and hump and thicken, when his growing knot starts to hit the rim of his hole with every thrust forward. Jackson yowls at a particularly rough pound that sends him sliding forward.

“Oh shit yeah,” he whines, curling his fingers around dirt and roots. “ _Fuck me_.”

Smug, Derek snaps at his ear:  _Who’s the pussy now? Who’s Alpha?_

Jackson snorts. He doesn’t care to stroke the bastard’s ego further, but his body’s already doing that, he supposes.

Because everything about Derek, about this, is overbearing, overwhelming, and Jackson’s just bitch enough to  _love_  it, love being used by him. He loves how Derek’s forepaws drag him back, impaling him further with red, veiny wolf dick and getting dangerously close to dragging in the bulbous knot; he loves his reckless hammering, rough rocking as he fucks him, as he presses for that filthy thing, that knot, that will finish this embarrassingly quick.  _Shit_ , he just loves Derek’s knot, loves every damn thing about it.

Especially when Derek jerks his hips like that and forces it in.

Jackson chokes at the initial burn, his face distorting before it eases as the knot sinks into him, expands further with blood. He’s absolutely, hopelessly full and it’s the most complete he’s felt in so long. That’s enough to make Jackson reach down and grasp his leaking dick, but it’s Derek feral snarl, the intimacy of hot spurts painting his insides, that do him in. He comes with an animalistic cry of his own—“Fuck!”—release slicking his stroking hand.

Derek is still twitching from his orgasm after Jackson lowers from his, still pumping an insane amount of jizz into him. He eventually finishes, too, with a final, full-bodied shudder and an absolutely pathetic whine. Then, he’s nosing into Jackson’s hair with something akin to a purr and, no, this is the best part of Derek’s knot. It’s afterwards, after they’ve come, and they are stuck tied like this. It’s how Derek works tacky cowlicks into Jackson’s hair with his tongue and Jackson pants with tight lungs beneath his weight.

Mornings like this are the greatest moments of his life.

After a time, Derek manages to ease his way out in a rush of sticky come, running in rivulets down Jackson’s thighs, and shoves off and away, landing somewhere close. Jackson collapses himself and when he shifts, he finds Derek human once more, naked with his cock soft against his thigh, an arm thrown over his eyes against the morning sun. They breathe in the cool autumn breeze lying so close to each other, nature coming to life around them as the day begins.

Jackson rolls onto his back, stretches, painfully aware of just how disgusting he must look now. He offers a fleeting glance before announcing, “So, I take it back.”

Derek shoots him an exhausted look. “Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Yeah. I think I’m starting to like these morning runs.”

A moment, then Derek reaches for him and Jackson smiles as he snorts a laugh into his hair.

“Good.”


End file.
